


The Green Graphorn

by DaronwyK



Series: What if... HP Drabbles & Short Stories [41]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 09:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15946115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaronwyK/pseuds/DaronwyK
Summary: Hidden in Knockturn Alley is a private little watering hole called the Green Graphorn. All sorts of different people go there for the privacy and anonymity it offers. On Christmas Eve, it brings two former enemies together.





	The Green Graphorn

**Author's Note:**

> Fun little AU set a few years after DH. EWE. If you’re interested, Batty-Fang is Victorian Slang for ‘to thrash thoroughly’

**o.o.O.o.o**

**_December 24_ ** **_ th _ ** **_, 2002_ **

 

Antonin tugged the hood of his cloak down over his face, as he slipped into Knockturn Alley. Ever since the end of the war, the dodgier places had been stamped out by the Ministry, but it was still the home of one of the best damn watering holes in the Wizarding World. There was snow falling lightly, dusting the grimy surfaces of the Alley, hiding the rot and decay under a blanket of white. Here and there flashes of green caught the eye, pine boughs over windows and the waxy green of holly leaves adorning a wreath. His eyes sought out a familiar sign, swaying slightly in the breeze. The wood was weathered, paint peeling a little in places, but the emblem of The Green Graphorn was unmistakable; a drunken troll was balanced precariously on top of a brilliant emerald green graphorn, hoisting a tankard of ale.

 

He knocked at the door and a section of it disappeared, revealing a burly wizard who glared at him. “Password.”

 

“Batty-fang,” Antonin smirked.

 

The door opened and he slipped in out of the cold, taking a seat on one of the dark corners to avoid anyone recognizing him. An ale was quickly brought over to him and paid for in short order. He was a free man, in a manner of speaking, but that didn’t mean that the Wizarding World at large was in the mood to forgive and forget. The Minister of Magic had passed a law giving new trials to all the convicted Death Eaters after the fiasco of Lucius Malfoy’s public trial. It had cast an uncomfortable light on the reality that many of the Dark Lord’s followers had been all but press-ganged into service, many of them as teenagers or forced by family under threats of torture or worse. His own trial had resulted in him being sentenced to five years of magical probation, shackled with something akin to the Trace placed on underaged wizards. Any magic he did was recorded in an office in the Ministry, and every month he had to meet with a clerk to review anything questionable. Any major slip would land his ass straight back in Azkaban fast than he could say ‘Auror’.

 

As he sipped his ale, his eyes wandered over to the bar, and he nearly did a double take. What in the name of Circe’s knotted knickers was Hermione bloody Granger doing in a place like this, on Christmas Eve no less? The witch’s chestnut curls were unmistakable, even as she tried to hide under the hood of her dark forest green cloak. Every now and then, he could see her profile as she nursed a mug of something. The girl was a blinking war hero, the sainted Golden Girl, and Antonin couldn’t think of a single reason for her to be in a sleazy place like this. How had she even gotten inside? He summoned up a bit of nerve and stood, heading over to the bar and taking a seat beside her.

 

“Not to sound clichéd, but what on earth is a witch like you doing in a place like this?” Antonin asked, leaning against the well-worn bar top. The wood had been painted green once, but only scattered remnants of it remained, the rest of the wood rubbed down by countless patrons over the years.

 

She turned her head and looked at him, hostility and resignation warring in her eyes. “The same thing you’re doing here, drinking and trying not to be noticed,” she answered finally, lifting her mug and taking a long sip.

 

“Unlike me, you’ve got friends…a life, it’s Christmas Eve.” He found that he was actually curious about the witch he’d once nearly killed. He knew she’d been involved with the Minister’s push to give new trials to all the Death Eaters. He’d read in the papers that she’d attended many of the trials personally, but he’d not seen a trace of her at his. It was strange, and Antonin didn’t like anomalies.

 

“Friends who have families of their own to be with tonight, and even with you here, this beats drinking at home alone with my cat...barely,” she added.

 

He nodded quietly and signalled the bartender to bring them another round. “Well…Happy Christmas then, I’m sorry I nearly killed you.”

 

Hermione looked suspicious but a nodded, saluting him with her fresh tankard. “Happy Christmas Dolohov, sorry I obliviated you that one time.”

 

He chuckled a little, trying very hard not to notice how the green of her cloak brought out the little flecks of gold in her eyes. “It beat what your friend wanted to do, so it’s forgiven.” He shrugged, not pressing her for conversation as if sensing that some quiet solidarity was probably what she wanted.

 

They spoke little, and Antonin watched as she used the bar’s floo to leave, just a little after midnight. He wondered if he’d ever see her again, and found somehow that he hoped he would.

 

o.o.O.o.o

_December 24_ _ th _ _, 2003_

 

“Password?” The voice at the door drawled.

 

“Batty-fang,” Hermione rolled her eyes a little as the heavy door was opened and she slipped in out of the cold. It had been a long day at the Ministry, and she was mentally wrung out. Most of her department was off for the Holiday and just like last year, she’d volunteered to man the desk.

 

She’d been resisting the urge to return to the Green Graphorn since last Christmas Eve, when she’d run across the man who still had a starring role in her nightmares. Finding herself face to face with him had shaken her, but also made her see that he was just a man, under all the horrible crimes and misdeeds. If she was really honest with herself, it had been cowardice that had kept her from coming back here, but tonight she needed the privacy and anonymity the bar offered. Any other place in Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade was just too public, and her face would end up splashed over the pages of the Daily Prophet, more so now because she and Ron had gotten into a very public argument at one of Ginny’s matches last month. The vultures were on high alert for any juicy gossip about her right now, and she just wanted a pint and maybe something to eat.

 

Hermione headed for a little table off to the side, pushing the hood of her green cloak back as she sat. Here, no one here cared who she was and she could just be a regular patron.

 

“Been a while, they treatin’ you ok at the Minstry?” Old Harg came over with a pint of dark lager for her.

 

“Just really busy, but I think I’ll be back a bit more now. What’s on offer for food tonight?” she asked, taking a sip of her beer and resisting urge to sigh.

 

“There’s a potato and leek soup, or roast chicken and greens?” he offered her a choice.

 

“Soup please,” she said, and when he headed off she spotted a familiar figure at the bar hunched over a pint. He looked rougher than she remembered, jacket a bit more threadbare, a green scarf wrapped around his neck. He hadn’t spotted her yet, so she could just ignore him, but something in her gut made her call out.

 

“Dolohov?”

 

His head turned and he looked surprised. “Miss Granger,” he said in greeting, grabbing his pint and heading over.

 

“Would you like to join me?” she offered, seeing that he did honestly look awful. He was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. He clearly wasn’t sleeping well.

 

“I won’t be very good company,” he warned, but at her nod he slipped into the seat across from her.

 

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

 

“I just got news that my mum passed, back in Russia,” he said quietly.

 

“I’m very sorry,” she expressed her condolences. It was difficult news at any time, but especially this time of year. The holidays were always the worst for bad news. “Are you going home for the funeral?” she enquired.

 

“I can’t. The Russian Ministry denied my request, citing my convictions here.” He raked a hand through his messy black curls. “I’m free…but I’m not.” He leaned back in the chair with a sigh. “I did warn you I’d be horrible company.”

 

“Well you’re not hurling hexes at me, so you still beat drinking with my cat.” Hermione found herself teasing him, not sure where it was coming from. She hadn’t gone to his trial, but Kingsley had given her the transcripts. It had humanized him in a way that she still had a hard time processing. It had been easy to hate him when he’d been the monster in her nightmares, not so much now that she knew he’d joined the Death Eaters to protect his sister from Mulciber and McNair, only to have her brutally murdered a mere year later. He’d been sixteen, and her death had changed something in him.

 

“I’ll take what I can get, I suppose,” he answered, the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement.

 

“Happy Christmas, Dolohov. I’m sorry about your mother,” she said sincerely. As she looked into his eyes, she realized they were actually green. It wasn’t the startling Avada Kedavra green of Harry’s eyes, but darker, sitting somewhere between hunter and moss green. There were tiny flecks of brown in them, putting her in mind of the Forbidden forest.  

 

“Happy Christmas, Miss Granger. I’m sorry you don’t have anyone better to drink with on Christmas Eve.” He winked at her and saluted her with his beer.

 

o.o.O.o.o

_December 24_ _ th _ _, 2004_

 

“What exactly is that?” Hermione gave the green substance in her glass a very dubious look.

 

Antonin chuckled a little. “It’s called Absinthe. Trust me, you’ll like it.” After their last Christmas Eve here, they’d come to an unspoken arrangement, meeting at the Green Graphorn every Friday night for drinks and little careful conversation. He suspected that she felt sorry for him, and that perhaps it was just a way to convince herself that she wasn’t as desperately lonely as everyone seemed to think she was.

 

“Trust you?” She gave him a dubious look, and eyed the glass again. “Alright, I’ll try it…just this once.”

 

He chuckled and grabbed sugar cube, setting it on top of a slotted spoon and laying it across the rim of her glass. He dripped water over the sugar cube, until the clear green liquor turned cloudy. He stirred the sugar into the drink and handed it to her.

 

Hermione took a tentative sip and then a slightly bigger one. “Wow…that’s got bite.” She blinked rapidly.

 

“Give it a minute, it’ll hit you good. They don’t call it the Green Faerie for nothing.” He did his own drink. “So, congratulations Miss New Under-Secretary to the Minister. I bet your promotion has everyone’s knickers in a right twist.”

 

Hermione snorted. “Everyone’s torn between being green with jealousy, or absolutely certain that I’m sleeping with Kingsley.” She rolled her eyes. “And I swear if Rita Skeeter comes anywhere near me between now and New Years, I’m going to stuff that acid green quill of hers somewhere unmentionable.”

 

Antonin laughed heartily. “I do love seeing your vicious streak. How is that everyone thinks you’re this little goody-two-shoes?”

 

“Are you implying I’m not?” She raised her eyebrows at him, giving him a look of pure sweetness and light.

 

“I’m not implying shit, I’m stating it outright. You, Hermione Granger, are the scariest witch I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing; brilliant…but utterly bloody terrifying.” He tapped his glass for a refill.

 

“You’re so full of it.” She rolled her eyes.

 

“Let’s recount shall we? You stole valuable potions ingredients from your Professor at the oh so tender age of 13.” He winked at her. One night, after too many pints, she’d shared that little gem. He could almost imagine Severus’ face. “Then you trapped an animagus in a glass jar for a solid month, letting her go only after blackmailing her into silence. You formed an illegal underground army, and placed a nasty curse on the parchment you made all those poor unsuspecting students sign. Then you basically handed that crazy bat Umbridge to the Centaurs, and don’t think I don’t know you secretly hoped they’d kill her.”

 

“You can stop anytime.” She raised an eyebrow, doing her best impression of a wet cat.

 

“You also broke into the Ministry and destroyed hundreds of irreplaceable prophecies, was Undesirable #2 on the Ministry’s wanted list, and dabbled in some questionable magic while on the run. Oh, and let’s not forget that you destroyed half of Gringotts.” He was laughing openly now, as she scowled and downed her second shot of the potent green liquor.

 

“I’ll have you know, each and every one of those things was done for good reason.” She poked him in the chest.

 

“You know you’re damned gorgeous when you get all worked up like that,” he said, his expression softening a little. Arguing with her was like baiting a dragon; dangerous as hell, but damned exciting.

 

Hermione blushed darkly. “I…I should go…” She hurried to try and get up, but found she couldn’t.

 

Antonin frowned and then looked up and started laughing. “Don’t look now, but seems like Old Harg’s playing matchmaker.” Up in the air over their heads, a delicate green sprig of mistletoe had sprung into existence.

 

“Damn him…” she muttered, looking down at the bar.

 

“Don’t tell me the Gryffindor Princess is afraid of a little kiss?” He tilted his head to the side. “I’ll even promise to be mostly a gentleman about it.” He reached out and very carefully brushed his fingers against her cheek. Somewhere over the last year, he’d started feeling something for the younger witch. It was wildly inappropriate, Merlin knew he was old enough to be her father and that wasn’t even taking into account the number of times he’d nearly killed her, but he couldn’t deny it either.

 

Hermione lifted her eyes then and closed the distance between them, initiating the kiss. Antonin was caught off guard by the sudden bold move, but didn’t push her away. Her lips tasted sweet, the lingering anise flavour from the absinthe playing on his tongue. After a long moment, he drew back, stunned by the look in her eyes. He was shocked to realize that she wanted him too.

 

“Happy Christmas Antonin, but I’m not sorry about the kiss,” Hermione said softly.

 

“Maybe, this year you’ll let me spend more than just Christmas Eve with you,” he answered and cupped her cheek.

 

“About bloody time,” Old Harg muttered as he wandered past, grabbing their empty glasses and wiping down the bar. “What are you two still sitting there for? Take the little witch home you daft bugger.” He shooed them along.

 

Antonin chuckled and tossed some coin onto the bar, standing and offering Hermione his hand. This year, they’d leave together. He didn’t know when they’d moved from enemies to something more, but now that they had he wasn’t about to let her go.

 

~Fin  


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